What is the color of water?

It drips silently from your unwilling pores in salty tears of pain and heat. The body purifies it and pours it into the liquid oceans. The ocean rocking like women's knees. So deep you take a step in and your over your hair. Liquid crystal particles swimming over you, your stationary body held up by invisible hands defying gravity's pull and rebelling against the sun god that warms the surface, sending paper sheets sifting to adorn the skin and dissolve above the abyss that swallows man and beast. Around you is the deepest tourqouise, sea-green, aquamarine, skies and jet planes, foutains where the children roll up their pants legs and dip just their toes into the cold water, pulling out wishes cleaned. This water is the tap of some ebb of life, pulling out with the tide, death, we lend our liquids to the Earth, where we began we end, made of some seed, watered and with growth occuring of a red water that walks in the day and lays its head down at night. Does that make our water a blood, a red warm dew that rolls down the backs of children at the park or down the steep slope of a leaf of grass upon which we walk with wet feet and mixed feelings? Do we paint with a red water, making velvet coats on one-dimensional, austere women, to allow the water to seep to the corners and roll the paper's edge. Or is it that water a natural blue, of violet and violent tendencies and cerulean under the magnification of a convex lens as it rolls playful, wild beads out of our hands to return to its everholding necklace upon our mother, will never own a color, but will own every shade, tinge, stain and mark?